Dereek khn
Yrxa Castle
٥ Korunasykli: ٢٢ Days after the Red Storm at Westsong
“Lankaajh? I need you to step in here for a moment, please. All’s well. No fear on that score.” Methias paused for a beat, considering. “If you feel the need to call someone else to stand guard first, I’ll understand. It’s you, specifically, that I need in here, though… your particular expertise.” He did his best to keep his voice neutral and calm. The truth was, his mind was racing and dragging his pulse along for the ride.
“My lord? Have you solved it, then?”
You sound hopeful. I fear I’m going to disappoint you, Daephone.
“I’ve made progress, certainly. I understand a good deal more about The Cage now than I did. But there’s still work to be done. We won’t hear uncontrollable screaming, though. Not for a while, at least.”
She nodded, then leaned her head back, rolling the stiffness out of her neck. “Will you wait out here while I go fetch Tharus, Lord?”
He grunted, then nodded. Never fight a battle you can’t win. That was another of Fyken Presh’s axioms. The battle, in this case, was about whether to push Daephone to enter the chamber now, as opposed to summoning Tharus. Methias didn’t need to hurry her. He simply wanted to. He was certain she could help him to identify what he couldn’t quite place.
Leaning back into the room for a moment, he spoke aloud. “I won’t be long. I need to fetch someone.”
Sleara’s head nodded and bobbed along the shadowy surface between the pilasters. “I don’t think we mean to go anywhere, Methias.” He made his voice playful, if a bit dry.
Methias stepped fully out of the chamber, smiling as he closed the door behind him. “Shall we go together? Or shall I seek him out myself?”
An instant later, he noticed Daephone’s thin-lipped stare. She gave a cautious blink, a slow nod, and made an after-you gesture.
An interval approaching ten minutes came and went. Things were as well as may be—well enough to be going on with, anyway. Tharus had been stationed beyond the door, and Daephone now stood beside him within The Cage. She’d seen the chamber in its active state on more than one occasion. And Methias had thought an end to the screaming madness would put her more at ease. To the contrary, its watchful silence seemed to increase her anxiety.
Well, as you always said, Emil… Wait. You taught me, but who’s taught Daephone?
Methias’s grin was brief but bright. “My master, Emil Draksh, made us memorize many axioms—many statements of truth that were self-evident.”
“If… never mind, my lord. Forgive me. Go on.”
Methias frowned, albeit briefly. “No, please. Say what you were meant to say.”
She chewed on her lower lip for a beat, then gave a brisk nod. “Yes, my lord. You said they were self-evident things.”
“I did.”
“If they were self-evident, why did he make you memorize them by rote?”
Methias made an ah sound. “For the same reason Fyken Presh does when teaching and training. Short phrases help secure the ideas behind those phrases in the mind of the student. They’re expressions of simple truths that we often lose sight of, day by day. Memorizing the axiom and being able to recite it by rote means it’s harder to forget. Not impossible, of course.”
“But harder. I see.” She paused as if to file that answer away, then returned her attention to both Methias and the room at large. “Thank you.”
Methias gave a nod, then went back to his earlier point.
“One of his first axioms was that ignorance is fear’s favorite food.”
Daephone seemed to chew on that, mouthing it in a slow, deliberate rhythm. Finally, she gave another crisp nod. “It’s easier to be afraid of a thing you don’t know, can’t name, or can’t see. That’s what you mean.”
“Exactly. Children are afraid of the dark because they don’t know what’s in it. Folk fear change because it’s unknown—it’s new.”
Her eyes made it clear that she understood and needed no further examples. At least, that was how Methias translated the look.
“I mean to explain what I know of The Cage and its function to you. Then use it—along with your experience and knowledge—to gather information.” He paused to make certain she had no questions or comments. Satisfied, he continued. “The chamber grants each skull the ability to create sight and sound, but no physical sensation. They can recall memory, or they can show what is happening in a place where some part of them rests.” Methias saw her confusion and clarified. “Where their other bones are buried, for instance.”
Daephone winced, but nodded. Methias saw her gripping the hilt of her war hammer, but she’d otherwise grown utterly, almost disturbingly calm.
“I’ll lay a hand upon your shoulder, so as not to interfere with your shield or striking arm. You’ll need neither, as I say. The Cage will be altering sight and sound, but nothing physical. We’ll still be stood here, regardless of what we see. Still, always safe…”
“Never sorry. Aye, my lord.”
“My hand on your shoulder should ensure that we don’t lose sight of one another. Also… focus on what you see and hear. Don’t let yourself dwell on any memories that crop up.” He paused to find her eyes. It was important that he underscore this point. And that he do so without turning the warning into a self-fulfilling prophecy. “This is neither the time nor the place to let yourself gather wool. If your discipline fails you on that score, we may both find ourselves watching whatever memory you’ve unintentionally conjured up.”
Her lips had narrowed to a thin line. “I don’t care for this, Lord.”
“I know, but you’ve seen more of the River than I. You’ve seen more of Thorion than I, too. I need to know where at least one of these places can be found.”
She nodded. “Snow will fall, my lord. My not caring for it doesn’t make it any less likely to happen. Nor does it make it any less necessary.”
Methias grinned. “It does not.”
“If it’s necessary,” she shrugged. “So be it. Snow will fall.”
He gave a nod, setting his bright hand upon her dim side shoulder. For a moment, he was tempted to summon a shield of his own. They were in step as if they stood in a shield wall, after all. He resisted the urge.
“Sleara?”
As when Sleara had shown him Rímhril, the room’s sights and sounds transformed between blinks of the eye. The pair found themselves standing a dozen or so feet back from the river that marked Dereek khn’s southern border. He knew they stood near its northern bank based on the direction of the current—westward out of the swamp surrounding Yrxa Castle. Other than what side of the River they appeared on, he’d been unable to ascribe any special significance about this, or any other place The Cage’s prisoners had shown him.
All things concerned, Daephone Ironbane took the sudden shift with surprising ease. She stiffened, but adapted readily to the new sights and sounds. She was from Nausha, of course, just as Methias was. And she’d seen her share of the Weave worked both there and here in Dereek khn. Still, he was genuinely impressed by the calm with which she comported herself.
“I don’t think I’ve been here before, Lord. The clarity is … staggering!” Her voice was a harsh whisper—a distant crow’s caw in autumn rain.
“It is, indeed.” He let her look around for a moment longer. When it was clear there had been no sudden realization, he spoke again. “There are two more sites—one on either side of the River. Are you ready?”
She nodded.
He heard the familiar creak of leather as her demi-gauntlet’s strap flexed. She’s tightening her grip on the heater shield. That’s the only outward sign that she’s on edge, and even that might signify nothing. It could be exactly what it sounds like—an adjustment of how her shield’s bar sits in her dim-side fist.
He lifted his chin and called Sleara’s name again. This time, the world shifted to an area south of the River. Based on the current, he was almost certain they’d moved farther east, back toward the swamp that surrounded Yrxa Castle. The water’s movement was slow and sweet here. They were in the shadow of a small, bluish banyan. It was likely a relatively young thing, given its overall size. He’d seen some in Thorion and further south that were the size of farmhouses.
Daephone saw nothing here that struck her as familiar, other than a vague recollection of seeing the tree before.
“In truth, though, I may be thinking of another tree entirely. There are a few of the blue ones on the Thorion side of the River. Only a few, though.” She shook her head as if to ward off an insect—sudden and sharp movements that caused Methias to wince and lean away. “Forgive me, Lord. I know that isn’t much help. I’m no scout, as you know.”
“True, but you were among those looking for additional fords when we were preparing for the Long Moon.”
She nodded. “We need more scouts and striders.” Her voice was only a murmur, but she’d clearly meant for him to hear it.
“Well, with luck, we’ll soon have some. The Lansel was hoping to recruit other Eodenth on the way to or from Shesh. Beyond that, he hoped to find some among the desert tribes, or within one of the cities. In the meantime, we bide with what we have.”
She brightened. “That’s Farin’s plan? I hadn’t heard that. Good. I’ve been thinking more than a bit about how he wanted the army structured.” She blanched, then amended, “How the throne wants it structured.”
Methias chuckled. “Peace, Ironbane. I knew you meant nothing by it. Shall we move on to the final location?”
Her ears pinked a touch, but she nodded just the same. Sleara brought the final site to life without Methias having to ask.
Daephone fetched a sigh of frustration. “No, Lord. There are familiar pines here, but…”
“But they’re pines. We have them all over the realm.”
“Exactly. This might be near Kowmor, but it might just as easily be to the far west for all we know.”
“NlorNo, it’s closer to Enroff Alifehv than that. The River’s slower here. Kor Kowmor might be right, actually. Well spotted, Lankaajh.” Enroff Alifehv—Future Dawning—was the name given to the ford nearest the swamp’s edge; the place where the River exited its muddy mirk, meandering westward. The place where the final battle of the Long Moon had begun. “The first site was further west. The second was closer, and this one is closer still. The current moves more slowly at each place, in turn. “
She blinked, giving an accepting nod. “I… hadn’t noticed that, Lord.”
“Perhaps not, but you did notice familiar pines. That may be enough. There is something more, though.”
“Lord?” The question was perfunctory. It only seemed to signify acknowledgement of his shifting topics.
The ghost of a grin crept across Methias’s face. “I wanted this part sorted first, so as not to cloud the matter any further. This entire situation is shrouded in quite enough mental mist already, I think.”
She quirked a wry smile at that.
Wry, yes, but genuine. Good. That’s something.
“I will have each one speak in turn. Speak, mind. Not gibber. I have a rough translation, but cannot quite place the languages. They sound… well, no. Let me not poison the well. Best you draw your own conclusions. Are you ready?”
She gave a dip of her chin that served as a nod.
“In order, then… Sleara?”
The image shifted to the first location. As it did, a voice spoke in either fear or excitement. As with all of the imprisoned folk, the voice sounded young. Its vowels were somewhat rounded, with an undercurrent of upward inflection. In the same manner in which Sleara had spoken on Rímhril, this voice seemed as if it were coming from behind, and just overhead.
“De kommer! De marsjerer! De kommer fra elven—de kommer fra elvens bunn!”
It repeated twice more before Methias raised his left hand in token of peace. Sleara must’ve silenced the poor speaker. That, or the speaker had seen what is as common a gesture as you could hope to find. He rolled his eyes, dipping his chin in self-recrimination.
“Is it familiar to you?”
“It’s Venzene, Lord. I’m almost sure of that much. I couldn’t say more than that, though.”
He waited a few beats to ensure she had no more to offer, then made a beckoning gesture with that same hand. The scene shifted to the second location—the one with the banyan. Another voice spoke up. This one gave the warning in a lilting, musical tone. The speaker shortened his or her tongue on certain letters and flattened the pronunciation of certain vowels.
“Wo aaye! kia! Wo darya se aaye, wo pani k neeche se aaye!”
Again, he let the voice repeat its message of warning several times before signaling for silence.
“That comes from Thorion. I know that much for certain. I’ve heard it in the market among some of the darker-skinned folk. Not those of Sheshik stock. Their skin is more… golden brown? Light brown? Come to that, I’ve seen some that are light-skinned enough to call them pale, and others dark skinned enough to simply call them brown.” She paused, shaking her head. “It’s hard to separate people by skin color when it gets down to it. A single person is one thing. Easy enough to compare one to another. An entire culture? An artist could do it, I expect, but…” She sighed. “I’ve seen folk who sound like this. And I’ve seen them in Thorionden. That much I can say.”
Methias let her run out of words before speaking. “That will do, Lankaajh.” He offered a warm smile, stepping forward to face her more directly. “It’s a start. We’ve one more. Are you ready?”
She nodded.
The voice that accompanied this third site was crisp and precise. It made a trill of its Rs, and gave the impression of a young scout reporting danger, rather than a frantic flood of warning words.
“Graf! Graf—bitte! Sie kommen! Sie kommen—Nebelblut, Herr! Sie marschieren! Sie kommen aus dem Fluss—sie kommen von unter dem Wasser!”
She didn’t wait for the phrase to repeat. “Gerstealunth, lord. I’m sure of it. I recognize the word Graf.”
Methias beamed. “I agree with all three assessments, but once more, you’ve proven invaluable. I only know Kovalunth and some Eodenth. And the heraldic words to blazon arms—all of which are in Havalunth. I’d hoped you might recognize at least one of them. Thank you largely.”
“I can do better than that, Lord.” She flashed a thin little smile. “I’d wager there’s at least one or two folk with Fyken Presh that are from Venzene.”
“Oh? That’s excellent, Lankaajh.” He flashed a grateful grin at her, then lifted his brows in sudden realization. “And Fyken has one, at least, from Thorion—the bachelor knight Morakogunn is grooming for service in the Yebu ke.”
Daephone blinked, then bowed her head. “As you say.”
“Well, that will do, then. We’ve seen what we need to.” He lifted his chin. “Sleara?”
The image faded, replaced with the grim sight of staring skulls. Daephone’s fists tightened, producing that creaking leather sound again. “We’re done here, then, my lord?”
“We are.” He turned to escort her from the chamber. “And I need to ride for Fyken’s fortress.”
“Now, my lord?”
“Now,” he agreed. “I need the translation more directly rendered if I’m to address its warning.”
They exited, but not before Methias turned to the room and said, “My thanks. I’ll return once I’ve sorted this. You’ve my promise.”
When the door was closed at last, Methias turned to find Tharus had already started up the stairs. He fought back the mild disappointment and started up with the Lankaajh just behind.
Daephone finally decided to ask the question she’d clearly been holding back. “My lord, you said you had a rough translation?”
“I did, and I do.” He lifted his chin, then spoke in the voice of someone reading aloud. “They come. They’re coming from the River.”
Daephone stopped just before they’d reached the small chamber at ground level. “They?”
He grinned, though there was no mirth in it. “Ah, you see the problem. I’ve seen the memory of the moments tied to that warning. I’ve seen water move, vegetation move… all as if something were walking through it. I’ve seen no thing doing the walking, however. I need a better translation. That means I need a native speaker of at least one of the languages we’ve heard.”
She nodded. “So you’re bound for Kor Kowmor.”
“I am.”
He opened the door and entered the smallish sitting room. A lanky youth of Sheshik stock was just sitting down. He wore raiment that marked him as a member of Daephone’s order, the Ban’ze Ruun. His hair had been pulled back in innumerable braids. Each was small and tightly woven so that his locks appeared to have been combed by something with impossibly thick teeth. His beard was close and neatly trimmed. A brindled mastiff sat at his feet, looking up and appearing to smile at the newcomers.
Methias resisted the urge to focus on the dog. Instead, he offered the man a warm smile and a nod to indicate him. “And Tharus will accompany me.”
Tharus nodded, reaching down to stroke the massive dog’s great head. His voice left the auditory impression of beard stubble. “Dannus deliver me… Finally.” He twitched a smile. “When do we leave?”